


Chance of Showers

by chinchillasinunison



Category: Classic Comedy
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Short & Sweet, Thunder and Lightning, Thunderstorms, like it's more platonic than anything but i tagged it just in case, sorta shippy but also not???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 06:02:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10656411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chinchillasinunison/pseuds/chinchillasinunison
Summary: Laurel & Hardy's first thunderstorm together. Neither of them like thunderstorms very much.





	Chance of Showers

There had been reports that day of a chance of showers and thunderstorms. Oliver knew that very well. So when he saw out of the corner of his eye those dark clouds rolling in while he was doing the dishes, it wasn't much of a shock to him what followed.

He’d never liked thunderstorms, not even a little. When you grow up so close to hurricane country, you're not one to associate that kind of weather with pleasant things. No, all you can think of is trees falling from gales, fields catching fire from stray bolts of lightning, and the rivers. Oh, the rivers! They'd rise up far beyond the riverbeds, brown with mud, currents relentlessly surging, rushing by like an endless stampede, primed to trample all who fell in. You could never tell how deep they really were, unless… unless…

Oliver's dark musings were interrupted by the shatter of china on linoleum. He had apparently missed the stack of plates near the sink by a large margin. He huffed in frustration as the sky outside the kitchen window flashed.

“Stanley!” he shouted so it could be heard throughout their apartment, “Would you be a dear and sweep up?! My hands are wet!”

No response came, excluding a roll of thunder from the clouds above.

“Figures…” he rolled his eyes. He carefully stepped over the broken china, hands still dripping, to the small closet where they kept their cleaning supplies. He bent down to grab the dustpan and its accompanying brush, when upon seizing said items a particularly loud crack of thunder sounded, and Oliver was startled so that he jolted upright, knocking his head against a shelf inside the closet. Stumbling backward fully out of the closet, he dropped the brush and held the now free hand to his pounding head. He hissed through his teeth, wincing at the pain. The fact that the hand was still wet and therefore cool helped it, at least a little. He glanced back down at the brush on the floor and remembered the task at hand. Begrudgingly, he picked it back up and walked to the area with the bits of broken plate strewn about and swept up the pieces, cursing under his breath all the way.

After the shards were well disposed of, Oliver was in no mood to continue with his dish washing chore, and figured, with the head injury he sustained, that he was entitled to a break. So he went into their tiny den and plopped down on the little couch inside. He listened to heavy downpour overhead, drumming his fingers against his chest in an attempt to keep in time with a rhythm that wasn't really there. When he grew tired of that, he turned to his side, facing the inside of the couch, and tried to fall asleep, but the rumbling outside was far too great for napping. He tossed over again, squishing a chubby cheek in his hand, then stretching it as he slowly pulled the hand downward. He grimaced. If only there was something to do, or someone he could do something with…

He realized something, in that moment. Stan. Where exactly… was he? Oliver hadn't seen or heard him since the storm began.

“Stanley!” he called out as he did before. Again, there wasn't a single reply. That was when Oliver could really sense there was something wrong with this picture. He hadn't known Stan that long, at that point, but he still thought it rather out of his usual character to stop addressing to him for no reason.

He sprang to his feet and ran, frantically looking, searching, for any sign of Stan’s whereabouts, all the while calling his name over and over. He looked all over the den, in the bedroom, the bathroom. He even checked the kitchen, even though he knew very well he wasn't there. After he circled back to the bedroom for a third time, he stopped himself for lack of breath and looked out the bedroom window, into the cold, relentless, unforgiving storm. He wondered, anxiety gradually building up in his chest. Was he out there, somehow? That seed of thought germinated into a weed of panic, rooted deeply in his brain. No matter how irrational it was, he felt as though it was certain that Stan just had to be outside, he just had to be. He ripped open the door to the closet, and plunged his arm in and dug around, desperate for his raincoat.

Then, he saw, balled up in the back corner, hugging his knees, Stan, looking quite alarmed by the whole ordeal.

“Oh thank God!” Oliver exclaimed as he dropped to his knees and embraced him, “Stannie, I was so worried! What are you doing in here?!”

Stan seemed unusually unresponsive to the hug or the questions, only replying with a more subdued version of his typical whimpers. Oliver let him go and eyed him curiously, wondering what exactly was going on. Just then, there was another lightning strike, immediately followed by a booming roll of thunder. Stan quickly covered his ears and squeezed his eyes shut, cringing as if in pain.

“Oh,” said Oliver as the sounds dissipated back into unyielding drops of rain, finally understanding, “It's the noise, isn't it? You can't stand all the noise. It's too much, is it?”

Stan nodded, ears still covered, with a tight-lipped frown.

Oliver thought for a moment, then offered, “Would you mind it too much if I stayed in here with you? It's dreadfully boring sitting out there all alone...”

Stan grinned one of his typical infectious grins, and gladly scooted over.

The two sat there, in the nearly pitch-dark closet, riding out the storm together. Stan clung tightly onto Oliver and whined during the bouts of thunder, but didn't speak a word. Eventually, the crashes of thunder and lightning died away, and the sounds of the rain softened significantly.

“Stannie,” Oliver whispered, nudging the other, “Listen!”

Stan lifted his head to the light pitter-patter of the rain on the roof.

“Sounds nice,” he quietly acknowledged.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks bluehairedspidey for the ask that spawned this idea. i hope you enjoy <3


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